Leagues away, a man stood atop a rugged cliff adorning a snowy mountain. His white clothes and long black hair billowed in the wind, yet somehow never got in his way as he planted a staff into the ground. The staff was a work of art; a tall shining steel pole which curved as it reached its end, turning into a nook in which a large silver Bell rested. The Bell hung freely yet did not sway in the slightest, despite the wind. Curling around the staff were engravings of gold depicting long wisteria vines climbing up jagged tree limbs and flowering towards the top, just barely unable to reach the silver Bell. The man opened an iron case with utmost tenderness, revealing a simple wooden violin. Taking the instrument in his hands, he stood back up and stared out upon a burning city far beneath him. There was a moment of quiet before the Bell beside him tolled, seemingly of its own accord, and he took a long breath and began to play. It was a mournful tune, slow and thoughtful. The Bell tolled again, and the winds around quieted, as if to listen more carefully. At the sharp ring of another toll, he gazed upon the invaders. They were advancing with a cold fury, but the defenders, desperately trying to keep the Emperor safe, had no such resolve. The bell tolled once more, and the song continued unimpeded, beautiful tones in harsh contrast to the atrocities taking place below. Another toll of the Bell, and an eagle which had moved in close, curious of the sound, slowed mid air and seemed to simply stop where it flew. “Again!” the bell seemed to cry, and the snow around the man, still playing his mournful tune, simply stopped midair and floated. Again, the defenders had broken. The man who’d been in command of an Empire for his entire life turned, and fled. Again, The attacking army was approaching with a chilling anger. Again, and they had him cornered. Again, and the song stretched triumphantly to its peak, the man moving frantically as though he no longer had control over the song he played. Again, and the Emperor stopped running, turning to face his attackers amidst an ancient oak forest. Again, and the blood of the man who ruled the world shined brightly against the bark of an old oak tree. The echoes of the final toll seemed to extend across the field, buzzing in the minds of the unlucky few left alive until the Empire took its final breath.

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  Victor Jolted awake, looking around the room he'd once again paid for. The night was quiet save for the faint chirping of insects. Rolling out of the creaking bed, the mage groaned, his own bones creaking just as much. His sleep was ruined, so he might as well keep watch for the rest of the night. Pulling out a sheaf of papers, he unsealed his inkwell and thought on how to make a spell to keep watch for him. Perhaps then he could finally get a good nights rest.